angels choking on their halos
by saltzmans
Summary: He finds comfort in cigarettes and Clarke—bellamyclarke.


**notes **| guess what i've spent the last two days watching! and guess which ship i now ship with a burning frenzy!

**warnings **| lots and lots of smoking references.

* * *

Bellamy Blake learns to smoke when he's twelve.

It's a simple enough process, really. He figures it out after the first few spluttering puffs on the badly rolled cigarette he's handed one afternoon on the Arc after class.

He inhales, inhales again and the exhales.

The trick is not to let the smoke consume you.

.

On the Arc, as it turns out, cigarettes aren't hard to come by. If you know the right people. And if you listen hard enough.

And Bellamy finds out he's very good at listening.

Maybe it's because he's spent half his life with his sister living under the floorboards, one ear always open for guards coming down the corridor but Bellamy begins to overhear snippets of conversations; catching secrets through air vents.

(He inhales twice and exhales once.)

(He hears a lot and doesn't share much.)

(He takes in twice what he lets out.)

.

After Octavia is found, their mother is floated, and Bellamy loses everything in one fell swoop, his armour thickens.

Letting people get to him is no longer an option, he decides. Because there's always going to be the inevitably of them getting hurt.

Instead, Bellamy begins to take in more information for himself.

He learns that the best cigarettes come from a woman called Nigel who works in the Mess Hall. He finds out about a man called Jake Griffin who was floated for knowing too much about the Arc's gradual failings.

He learns that in the comings and goings of the Arc he is nothing – just a lonely face in the midst of a crowd with nothing and no one to do anything for.

So when a man from his past appears in his room with a gun, an assignment and promise of escape, Bellamy says yes in a heartbeat.

.

The drop ship crashes into the earth's surface and it is wild, dangerous and unpredictable but everything Bellamy has ever wanted.

He has his sister.

He has freedom.

He has power.

.

No more than a month after they've begun to set up base on the ground, a black market begins to form. Cigarettes clumsily rolled from paper thin leaves, stuffed with the tobacco Monty thinks no one knows he grows outside the back wall, begin to circulate the base.

Bellamy finds one tucked under his pillow one night. He doesn't know who left it there – neither does he care particularly – but he pockets it all the same. He's missed the rhythmic lull of smoking. The inhaling and exhaling, catching the smoke just before he chokes on it.

He lights the cigarette the following night, on his watch shift, leaning against a tree by the wall. He smiles contentedly to himself. He wouldn't exactly called earth a haven but Bellamy likes it a whole lot better than the Arc.

As he gazes up at the stars dotted in the gaps between the canopy of leaves, the end of the cigarette glowing red just out of the corner of his eye there's a cough to his left. Bellamy's hand instinctively tightens on his gun.

"Relax," Clarke's familiar voice reaches him, "it's just me."

"Evening, Princess." Bellamy body eases again, stretching out against the trunk. It's odd how Clarke's bossy, know-it-all personality had changed in effecting him. He is no longer filled with a deep rooted irritation every time he sees her. Instead he feels at ease.

"I didn't know you smoked," Clarke comments sagely.

"Didn't know you cared."

Clarke shrugs. "I don't."

Silence. An owl hoots.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you smoking kills?" Clarke asks.

"One or two times," Bellamy replies mockingly. "But we're on earth. We've got to live everyday like it's our last, right?"

"Right," Clarke agrees, matching his tone. "But even so, wouldn't you rather live your last days without lung cancer?"

Bellamy's mood sours. "If you're going to lecture me, please leave."

Clarke rolls her eyes, flicking a strand of blonde hair from out of her eyes. "I'm not. Raven and Jasper have managed to put together some more bullets and gunpowder. I figured you'd be interested."

"Yeah, alright. I'll come and see." Bellamy takes one last drag on his cigarette.

Inhale. Inhale. Exhale.

He stomps out the last of the embers and follows Clarke back into the camp.

.

On the Arc, Bellamy's life had a system. He would wake up every morning. Eat breakfast. Shower. Go to work. Go back to his bunker. Eat dinner. Sleep. Repeat. Variations were few and far between and even then any change in the monotony was miniscule.

Inhale. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

Earth, however, has little routine. Bellamy finds himself waking at any hour of the day – or night – and finding odd hours to rest when there isn't work to be done somewhere in the encampment. No one knows when a grounder will attack; no one knows if someone is going to die and they're going to have to take their watch shift.

In a strange way, Bellamy finds he misses the tedium of the Arc. At least then he didn't have to pretend he knew what he was doing so everyone else followed suit.

He finds a few minutes of relief every evening on his watch, with the stars and a cigarette as company.

Inhale. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

It almost feels like home. Almost.

Some nights, he's joined by Clarke and after a while, it's like she fits into his few minutes of routine as well. Talking to her about the camp shenanigans and affairs in between drags feels natural now.

Several nights with Clarke and he starts to notice how beautiful she looks in the starlight, despite the grime which coats her skin and the dark bags underneath her eyes. And it's not just a physical beauty. There's something stunning about the way she holds herself, about the way she speaks with such assertion and confidence.

Bellamy's armour is weaker when he's around her.

.

"What are you staring at?" Clarke asks curiously one night.

Bellamy takes a long drag and stares up at the stars. "Nothing," he replies, "absolutely nothing."

.

As the battle with the Grounders continues the losses inflicted to the hundred become more and more significant. Out of the original group only seventy four remain. The graveyard outside the encampment expands.

Bellamy digs the grave for a girl named Elizabeth who was shot in the throat by a stray arrow during a Grounder raid one night. He's sent the rest of the diggers away and works alone, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The losses that day had been particularly high. Six other freshly turned piles of soil are lined next to his half dug hole.

"Hey." Her voice has become so familiar now that Bellamy doesn't even look up.

"Hi," Bellamy replies, heaving another pile of soil over his shoulder.

"Are you okay? Murphy said you'd sent everyone back in. Do you need any help?"

"No," Bellamy snaps, "that's why I sent everyone back in."

"Alright," Clarke sounds half wounded, half pissed off. Not that she doesn't sound pissed off most of the time she's speaking to him. Bellamy supposes that's one of the things that he loves – no, likes – most about her. "I'll go then."

"No," Bellamy finally looks up, "don't go. I'm sorry for snapping. I could use a hand."

A half smile forms on Clarke's lips as she picks up a spade and joins Bellamy digging. When the grave is deep enough, the roll the body into it together and throw the soil over it. The stand for a long moment above the grave, in silence.

"It's fucked up, isn't it?" Bellamy's voice sounds harsh, breaking the vigil.

"We're just kids, when you think about it," Clarke agrees, her voice a soft contrast to his. "We're kids burying other dead kids who used to be our friends and smoking homemade cigarettes to help us forget."

Bellamy lights another cigarette. "Yeah."

"Hey," Clarke gestures towards the cigarette in his hands, "can I…?"

"What? Oh, right, sure." Bellamy hands over the cigarette and Clarke accepts it, holding it awkwardly between her forefinger and thumb. She takes a drag and immediately doubles over coughing.

Bellamy eyes her curiously. "Have you never…?" He asks.

Clarke glares at him. "Don't laugh."

Bellamy smirks, raising his hands in defence. "Hey, hey, I'm not. Don't worry."

"I always thought it was stupid."

"Oh, it is," Bellamy agrees, "and I in no way condone it but it helps me relax."

"Really?" Clarke asks. "How so?"

"It's routine, I guess," Bellamy begins, slowly. The topic is one he's never really talked about with anyone – not even Octavia – and talking to Clarke about it feels like he's _opening up _far too much but there's something about the genuine interest on her face which keeps him going. "It's the one thing that I miss about home— about the Arc. There, I was I had a purpose, something to do. And here, I have no idea what I'm doing, people seem to think that I have everything planned out but really I'm just making up everything as it comes along."

Clarke nods. "I understand."

"You do?"

"Yeah," she begins. Then she pauses. "Do you think you could…y'know—" she gestures wildly "—teach me the whole smoking thing? Maybe it'll help me too."

Bellamy shrugs. "If you want."

He hands her the cigarette again and she accepts it in the same awkward grip. He grins. "First you gotta hold it right," he says. "Slip it between your index and middle finger. Here, let me—" Taking the cigarette again, he moves it so it sits in a more comfortable position. His fingers brush against Clarke's and something inside his stomach burns.

He ignores it.

Inhale. Inhale. Exhale.

"Now, put it to your mouth. You've got to inhale. Then take out the cigarette and inhale again but make sure you don't swallow the smoke completely."

Clarke does as instructed but doubles over coughing again. "Easy," Bellamy instructs, "you've got it too far into your mouth, just put the tip between your lips."

"Like this?" Clarke mumbles from between the cigarette.

"No, like—" Bellamy reaches for the cigarette and his fingers touch against Clarke's lips. The fire roars inside him again and this time he feels Clarke stiffen too. Slowly, he removes the cigarette a little. HiHiHis thumb still rests against the side of her mouth. Clarke's eyes don't leave him for a second.

"Now inhale."

Clarke does so and Bellamy removes the cigarette. His fingers brush her cheek. "Keep your mouth closed and breathe in the smoke. Then exhale."

The smoke leaves Clarke's mouth and she doesn't cough this time. She makes a face but there's a smile behind it. "It tastes disgusting," she smirks.

"Yeah, I know," Bellamy grins.

"Well, that's one experience I'm not in a hurry to repeat," Clarke says.

"What?" The fire in Bellamy is deafening.

"Are you alright?" Clarke takes a step towards Bellamy and instead of instinctively moving backwards, Bellamy stays where he is. They're centimetres away. He can see the smudges of dirt on her faces, smell to cigarettes on her breath.

"I'm—" Bellamy's thumb is tracing Clarke's lips again before he knows what he's doing but she doesn't move away.

"Bellamy?" Clarke asks.

"Clarke?" Bellamy replies.

"Remember when I told you to live every day like it's your last?"

"Remember when you told me smoking kills?"

Clarke laughs shakily, leaning forward. "On the off chance I do die tomorrow, I think I'd like to go knowing I'd done a whole lot of things. But right now, I want to die knowing I've done this."

.

Clarke kisses him and every movement is an inhalation. It's messy and dirty, against the rough bark of a tree, the smell of smoke clinging to them both.

He breathes her in – her smell, her feel, her taste. She's a narcotic, more addictive than the cigarettes Bellamy smokes every night behind the wall.

But unlike the cigarettes, Bellamy never wants to exhale her.

.

.

.

.

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